I look over the boy over with gleaming eyes. He is maybe ten, at the oldest, twelve. His throat is cut open; his blood abandoning him like his health had at the start of his Affliction. It is a traitor to its host. And I do not blame it.

The others around me grin in satisfaction. We have saved the second person from the horror of the disease; the second Afflicted. Unfortunately, we are far off; thousands -and counting- remain. We are careful not to touch anyone at all. We are not so stupid as that. We are all well aware that the virus is spreadable through blood and tears. How symbolic. How poetic. How powerful.

But the virus cannot touch me. It watches me like an unobtainable prize; a jewel in a famous museum. Beautiful. Strong. Untouchable. Invulnerable.

I motion for the others to follow me. We will take over the world together, saving it from its poison. No, that's not right -we will take the world and mock its vulnerability.

xxxxxx

Old.

Desolate.

Abandoned.

These three words sum up the buildings and atmosphere of this part of the city. Brick buildings are visible at every corner, looking as unloved as can be. The night is dark, and it only adds to the overall creepy feel. You stare down the building in front of you. This brick building is large enough. It looks as old, desolate and abandoned as the others, but emanates a sense of home.

"Jane," the driver of the cab says in a gentle voice, gesturing to the building. You advance to the front door, the overgrown weeds tickling your legs with every step you make. You are careful not to trip over them, but the darkness wraps you and makes you stumble. At last, you reach the door. It is old; the paint is nearly dissipated, giving the door an aged wooden look, but not the pretty kind. There is no door bell, of course, so you settle for knocking.

Knock!

Knock!

Your knocks sound almost hesitant. You worry about your first impression; you don't like being seen as one who can't make up your mind. The door looks down at you as if to intimidate you.

In the background, you hear the cab driving off. You know there is no turning back now. You can't tell if that upsets you or not.

You take a deep breath in and-

The door opens, revealing a young woman in her mid-teens. She flicks her teal hair to the side and glares at you like you shouldn't be here. It isn't an incredibly harsh glare, more like the kind of glare your mother would give you when you arrive home late. You decide you don't really like this woman. She unsettles you.

"M-my name's Jane, and-" Hesitation. You grunt in dissatisfaction of yourself.

"Save the introductions for later. Come inside." She says the phrase without making eye contact with you at all. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The young woman raises an eyebrow.

"Well? You coming in, or not?"

You flinch, but somehow you're able to convince yourself to step inside. As you enter, your shoes click on the tile floor. The young woman whirls around, shooting you another one of her glares.

"Take your shoes off," she snaps, "I just finished cleaning in here."

You don't even hesitate to do what she asked of you. Though the place isn't of the highest quality, what with the torn walls, old tile floor, and mismatching furniture, but it does appear pretty clean. You honor her request and proceed to unstrap your shoes.

She gestures to the closet and you nod. The shoes slip off rather easily after the strap is undone, and you nestle them in with the rest of the clothing, part of you flinching to leave behind even the smallest possession. You look at the young woman again and are surprised to see that she is making eye contact with you. She doesn't have to say a word for you to figure out she wants you to follow her up the stairs.

You pick up your suitcase, heavy from all the items inside it, and weakly drag it up the stairs. They creak under you, wooden and covered in peeling white paint, a threadbare red runner screaming up the center. You trudge upwards, dragging the suitcase behind you, wishing you had packed lighter. Finally, you reach the top. There is a long hall with multiple rooms to its sides.

"This is where the girls' dorms are. The boys' dorms are downstairs. Don't stay up too late; breakfast is served at eight, and if you don't come downstairs, you miss out. There's an empty room at the very end of the hall."

And without saying so much as a "good night," the young woman left you by yourself.

xxxxxx

It is a silly thing, this "Affliction." It will consume you faster than you know you have it. Isn't that funny? Isn't it funny that you have two whole weeks of not even knowing before it rips you into tiny, manageable pieces? I once had someone explain the virus to me. They were so worried, so, so worried that I might just leap up and tear their throat out if they made a mistake, if they left something out. Everyone does that to me. Everyone flinches from me. I might worry about it if it didn't instead please me. Authority is the fear of your followers.

The Affliction. It sounds so simple. It is a virus, he told me, it gets inside of you and kills you until it has enough room to coexist with all the other little fishies swimming around in your bloodstream. Those are the days of the Burning. Those are the days when your body turns on itself and tries to kill what's inside of you, and instead just kills you. Those are the weeks that you spend crying out in blind pain, asking for a reprieve. Asking for death. If your loved ones do not love you back, they will let you suffer through it, to see if you can fight it down. If you do, you are lucky. You deserve a prize for your efforts, and one is granted.

Abilities, the man said to me, powers that belong in pokemon, not in people. Your powers will not obey you. Your powers do not love you. Your powers are just more of the virus killing you sweetly. If you survive long enough to control them, people will already hate you because you will have most likely accidentally been the death of several people when your Affliction flared up in the middle of the market, or in your house, or on a train. And if you have not killed someone, you've probably infected them, weeping over their hands in the days of Burning. Out of ten people you infect, about seven will die, maybe eight. But you will infect more than that, because at this point, you are part of the parasite. You will infect anywhere from twenty to forty people before you've got everything under control. You will have caused more deaths than one person should. You are now a murderer.

But what of the children? I had asked my scientist, sharpening my blade and watching it reflect his wide pale eyes, Why do the children stay safe? Why are Afflicted offspring so...resilient?

He had been excited. That's just the thing, he had said, an Afflicted, once under control, can function as a normal member of society. They can have children, who they pass the antibodies on to. The children would catch the virus only if exposed to a serious measure of Afflicted blood, and they would only have two to four weeks of Burning instead of the normal three to eight. Not only that, he'd added excitedly, but their powers are stronger and are usually easier to control, less deadly. Think, he'd gasped, think of the possibilities! The blood of these children contained the salvation of the world!

I had laughed with his joyous cackle and told him he had two days to live, just to see what would happen. He had paled and begged for forgiveness, although he had done no wrong. I granted it to him, told him to spread word that I was nothing if merciful, and then had his wife killed by one of those darling Afflicted he was so obsessed with. It was so easy, so, so easy, getting him to convert to my ways.

He came to my master's company, shaking, and begged for an audience. He explained that he was going to go public with a story: one about how pokemon had been the start of the Affliction, that the Afflicted were terrible, twisted people, and that spilling their children's blood could save you. The seven that had ruled then had agreed slowly, and it was in this way that the war was begun, though not in earnest.

I was not born by the time the Affliction started, but by the time the scientist came forwards, I was young, small, slight boy with a sharp tongue. It has been five years since that day, the day the Affliction became a symbol of hatred instead of pity, and, sitting in my master's office, I wonder at the climb I have made, at the seed of distrust that has grown into a full-fledged war.

The scientist is dead now. That one was not my fault. Gluttony took him. Gluttony takes everything, for the nature of the sin is to consume.

My nature is to destroy.

xxxxxxx

The dorm room is large, wooden, strewn with rickety cots that are covered in splashes of garish color from donated quilts. The minute the door closes, everyone stares at you, waiting. "Uh, I...I'm Jane," you stumble, hoping that no one will hate you. There is a slow ripple of greeting, but the only person that really smiles at you is a girl with flowing blonde hair and kind green eyes.

"Hi!" she chirps, "I'm Carmen." She moves over to you and you are struck by the fact she is confined to a wheelchair. It doesn't appear to slow her down in anyway. She catches you looking and gives a helpless shrug. "The Burning made my bones brittle," she explains, "I'm always breaking something," she grins, and you wince for her, because you know what it's like to lose something to the Burning. You let the silence linger, wishing you had something witty to say. Carmen sends you a look like she knows what it's like to be the new girl and nods to an empty cot on the far left. "That one should be yours. It belonged to..." she cut herself off, tears shining on the edge of her eyes for just an instant. You duck your head and thank her, scurrying over. You know better than to rub salt in wounds, and you know full well that death is just another part of being Afflicted. Your days were numbered the minute you were born. But then, you think wryly, everyone's days are numbered.

You harass your suitcacse up onto the bed, fumbling it open, feeling all of the eyes in the room focus on your back. You slide out a blanket, the one your mother made for you. You smooth it out carefully over the white sheets, and you jump when someone says your name. You whirl around to discover it is the snappish matron from before, and for some reason you feel like cowering.

She holds out one hand stiffly. "I forgot," she says, and it sounds almost soft, "I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jemeye," she says, pronouncing her name as if it was "Jimmy." She gives you a sort of barely-there smile, turns on her heel and marches away. She pauses at the door, calling, "Lights out in ten minutes," which is met with an asending sort of groan.

You curl up on your bed, looking at the room around you. It is both empty and full, somehow, filled with silent commiseration, empty of voices. Most girls just watch you, and you know what they are trying to do because you are trying to do it right back to them: you are trying to figure out their Affliction. The girl in the bed closest to yours gives you a tight smile when you meet her dark eyes. She has a block of wood in her hands that she is making marks in with her fingernails. You wonder if her Affliction has to deal with carpentry, but are distracted from the thought when the lights blink out around you. Apparently, lights out is serious business here.

As soon as you are plunged in darkness, the chatter begins. It is soft, but it is suddenly there. Most of it is not aimed at you, but it makes you feel more comfortable, though you wish you were in on it. The floorboards creak near you, and you look around, startled, wishing your eyes had adjusted to the darkness better. Someone puts a hand on you, and you jump.

"Shh," the voice inside of your head breathes, "It's just me."

You know that voice, even though it sounds like you're hearing it through spiderwebs and fur. It is soft, scratchy, as if it was barely there. You know Carmen is holding back, and you think you know why. A mind is an easy thing to break, after all. "C-Carmen?" you call, uncertain, and the room hushes around you for an instant before the chatter speeds up, excited.

"In the tradition of Broken Willow Orphanage, it is my pleasure to greet you," she says, and you can feel the smile through her thoughts. "Normally, we'd ice you out for the entire day, but since you got here late, it is your luck to only suffer silence for a full fifteen minutes," she notes, and then adds thoughtfully, "Although, fifteen minutes was still pretty hard for us. Seriously, we're girls."

You are so focused on the voice in your head, you almost don't hear the soft patter of footsteps, muted footsteps, the slow, deliberate creaking of someone trying to be quiet. They are surrounding you. You pull your knees to your chest, peering at the darkness, trying to make shapes out of nothingness. "Dear Jane," Carmen says, and by now you have blinked the blackness into submission, "To be accepted, you must complete your initiation as all of your sisters have done before you, and all of your sisters will do after you," she sings, her voice even more hushed. Around you, you see the rest of the girls joining hands with each other, each one connected to Carmen through another. You wonder if it works like electricity, but before you can contemplate the physics, Carmen is telling you, "You have a brave mission, soldier. You must venture to the kitchen and retrieve us all cookies. We wish you luck, and hope that the cookies are chocolate chip," she states, and despite her authoritative tone, you feel her humor at the situation.

Slowly, you stand up, slinking to the door. The hallway's dim light peers at you. You have no idea where the kitchen is. No one, it seems, is going to tell you. Left, you decide, and turn that way, walking restlessly down the slim corridor. There are a few doors, but most of them are locked or lead to empty rooms. The hallway is a dead-end, but at least you've found out where the bathrooms are. As silently as possible, you sneak past the room again, grinning. It wasn't much torture for an initiation. You've heard stories that sounded far worse than grand theft cookie. The hallway to the right of your dorm has two options: either you can slip down all the way to the end, or take a right, past the stairs, and explore further. You decide to do both, and when all that happens is a few awkward moments where you've stumbled into someone's room, you head downstairs, glad you have taken off your shoes.

The mudroom is as you remember it: clean but small. The hallway to the left of the stairs is dark, but you don't let that stop you. A few doors are locked, but most are open, although none lead to the kitchen. You decide to take a left, following a tacky blue rug into a large dead-end, but at least, you think, you've found some more doors. Like that's going to help you.

Experimentally, you try one, and from the look on the boy's faces, you're probably in the wrong place. You gasp and quickly dart away, shutting the door behind you. Well, you think, at least I know where the boy's dorms are now. You retrace your steps, following the main hallway until you come upon a wide, empty doorframe that houses the kitchen. It is light yellow, with white cabinets and a loud refrigerator. This kitchen comes equipped with a boy, standing on a chair, his arm in a cabinet and his hand in the cookie jar.

"Hey," you laugh, "That's my job," and he jumps, surprised, almost falling off the chair with shock. He peers at you through the darkness, clamoring down, the jar snug against his body. He grins at you, and you think he is good-looking, although the light makes it hard to tell exactly what he looks like. He offers you the jar.

"Initiation?" he guesses, and you nod. He smiles as you take cookies, hoping that you have enough. "My name is Letters," he whispers, and you think his voice is smooth and wonderful. The cookies go into the pockets of your dress, and you begin to back away, smiling your thanks. He laughed, snowflakes in the air, commenting, "Usually this is where you tell me your name too."

"Jane," you reply, wishing your voice was smooth, coy like his. You sound young, even though he can't be more than a year older than you are. You slip away, blushing, padding upstairs and into the dorm, closing the door behind you and letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"Cookies!" Carmen cries, and suddenly you are flocked by all sorts of expectant hands. You dole them out as quickly as possible, glad for the way people now talk to you instead of about you. "Mm," Carmen says through hers, "Sugar with sprinkles. A good omen, as it were," she laughs, and you hand over a cookie to the last hand. You search your pockets, finding only crumbs, dust, and a broken one of the questionable nature. You don't care. It slides into your mouth anyway, and you think it's the best thing you've ever tasted because it tastes like victory.

"Now, also in the tradition of Broken Willow orphanage," she grins, "I get to tell a ghost story!" With that, the girls suddenly flock to her as if she was a force of gravity. She pulls herself out of the chair and slips onto her bed, carefully crossing her legs and grinning widely. Around her, everyone takes their favorite positions: on the floor, on the opposite bed, leaning against the wall. You have been somehow placed right in front of her, sitting on someone's bed and staring into her green eyes. Her voice is soft, sweet, and the story she tells is one you know.

But there is something enthralling about history, and you are sucked in.

xxxxxxxx

Carmen's story goes like this: Twenty years ago, before the coming of the great Seven or AFTERSHOCK, people and pokemon lived in peace. It had been this way for a thousand years, and a thousand years before that. Our people did not hate each other, did not attack each other. We used our pokemon as pets, as companions. We did not kill them as we do now, but that is because we had no knowledge of the virus and what it could do to us, how it could destroy us.

One day, twenty years ago, a man made his living by breeding livestock. But business was slow, and the man was greedy. He began to play with the hormones in the food, toying with the very nature of life itself. He succeeded only in killing half of his stock, and the other half were too sickly to sell. Only those that were pregnant were in good shape, as if the hormones had not effected them. But each of them died in his arms, bleeding out after giving birth. The offspring were mostly stillborn, but one remained, a Ponyta named Heather. She was strong, furious, more powerful than a newborn ought to be. The man loved Heather very much, because she was the last thing he had left, and, not knowing what he was doing, he let her out into the wild lest he do her any harm. He did not know he had created a virus. He did not know that Heather would spread this virus to many, many pokemon, who would, in turn, spread it to all the others.

The man, for two weeks, was healthy although poor. After those two weeks, he began what we now know as the Burning days. The Burning, they say, was proof the angels had not forgiven the man's sin. His wife did everything she could for him, for she loved him very much, but he died in her arms. The woman began to cry, and she could not stop. Everywhere she went, her tears would fall like feathers. She went into the world to find Heather, knowing that her husband would have wanted the Pontya to be safe. She walked and walked and walked, crying for her love, until the angel of harvest and nature, Shaymin, looked down on her with pity. He knew her misery would lead to nothing good, so out of the kindness in his heart, he spoke to the other angels, asking for help. Together, they turned her into a large willow tree, binding her to the earth so her wandering could spread no more tears. But her sorrow was so powerful that it broke through the strong bark, splitting the tree so that all might hear the widow's cries. Ever since, the symbol of the broken willow has meant loyalty, love undying, and perseverance from hardship. We use it as the name of our orphanage so that Shaymin and the other angels will look down on us favorably.

But the widow's tears had done more harm than she was aware. For each tear that hit the ground, a person made of mud and sickness sprang to life. Each would hunt down a pokemon, inhabit it, and use the body to infect people with the virus. Soon the Affliction spread, leaving few survivors. Those that survived were praised for their new witchly powers, but we now know what damage the Afflictions do, how much they can leave someone incapacitated. At first, the survivors of the Affliction were heroes, but the Affliction rots the brain as well as the body, and the powers it gives rots society. Afflicted were not controlled, and they began to destroy civilization. For a long while, chaos reigned.

Five years ago, which we now know was Five Before Year the First, a new company rose out of the ashes of a hospital. They began housing the Afflicted, quarantining them, providing for them. They rehabilitated the crazed Afflicted, turning them into people again, making use of their powers. They helped the normal people too, those that had lost their families and jobs to the Afflicted. The company was called AFTERSHOCK, and they saved many, many people. They were led by the great Seven, seven people who dedicated their lives to furthering science, furthering lives, rebuilding society.

AFTERSHOCK has done a great many things for the Afflicted, but it has done more for the normal people. They have learned how to clean up Afflicted blood, how to ensure safety through the Burning and the power trials that follow, how to protect against the virus. They showed us the evils of pokemon and began the slaughter of those vile creatures. They showed us the evils of our politicians and began the slaughter of those sick creatures. They showed us the evils of the Afflicted and began the slow slaughter of those terrible, terrible killers.

There is a light, they said, a light in the Afflicted's offspring. The blood of their children holds the key to survival. It was not safe, during that time. It was not safe at all. Many children died, and the great Seven saw the way the media had warped the knowledge. They banned the media, calling them liars and villains. They built orphanages that promised the sanctuary of the children, they issued laws that forbid spilling the blood of an Afflicted's child. They did the best they could to protect us, for we are the future. They demanded little in return. We owe our lives to AFTERSHOCK and the great Seven. All of us, Afflicted and normal alike.

This year is Year the First. The great Seven have promised a change like we have never seen.

I have never been so afraid.